Picture this.

Brian didn't talk much about his girlfriends, or any other people he knew. He had an organic philosophy of life, one that allows for growth and change, and finding one's way in the world. He was always open to possibilities, to make friends, make discoveries.

After he met Janet, he began to tell us what a wonderful girl he had met.
When he brought her up to meet us in 2010, we knew he was smitten with her and he was a changed man.

And so, as the romance developed, I began to see other aspects of his philosophy of life. He became a planner and a dreamer. Every purchase, every step he took was now most important to his ultimate goal to marry, have children, support the family unit.

A few weeks before his death he and Janet had visited us at the lake and talked about having the wedding there. They were also planning to upgrade the house in Long Beach he had purchased a couple of years earlier, improve the garden so they could have all their friends for a reception after they married.  Picture a small wedding at the lake, with the two families and a couple of friends, then, a few weeks later, a reception for all their friends.  I had no idea how many friends they had!
I had no idea that hundreds of people would gather one last time to make that garden dream come true!

Now, the wedding date had not been set yet. Janet was in school (is in school).  He had promised her family that they would wait.  In the meantime, he and Janet planned an upgrade of the garden and he borrowed his father's big rototiller to get started in the back garden.  The two of them had already renovated the front garden, and I have pictures of the two of them doing the hard work of digging and planting.

That first garden they planted together cemented their friendships.
That last garden honored his memory and dreams beautifully.

Thanks to all his friends who made that dream come true. And many, many thanks to Janet, for believing in him, for loving him, for honoring his memory so beautifully.

You saw what I didn't see.

I kept making lists for you, bought books about how to do this and that. I was not finished with mothering.

Yet, you were always surprising me with stuff you had figured on your own.

You had figured out how schooling worked early in kindergarten:

"If you don't get in line you will not get a snack!"
"The teachers get tired, so they make you lie down."
"When you finish one paper, they give you another and another."
"Get the work done fast so you can play more."

You shone when you were in charge of your own work:

Decathlon in high school.
Running your computer set-up and repair company in junior high.
Graduate work in the lab at Riverside.
Creative projects at L3.

You read widely, found time to be with friends, throw a BBQ, go camping, play various sports, and volunteer for Habitat. You were thrifty with your resources, shunning labels and false signs of wealth.

You had managed to buy a house on your own, repair your own car.
You managed to figure out how to live a rewarding life while there was still much life ahead.

A year, a month, two weeks later...

(Newkie enjoying the warmth of the sun)

A few years ago a man and his wife moved down the street. He took walks, spent time pruning his trees, spoke to anyone who walked by. She never came out of her house. What we knew of her was through the stories the husband told us.

They had lost a grown daughter to cancer a few years back, the husband began. The woman was depressed, hardly left the house, and now, three years later, and three houses later, things had not changed. Will she see a therapist, I asked. No. She won't talk to anybody. She is inconsolable!

The couple moved a year later, to another house, another attempt to put her loss behind.

I knew what it felt like to lose a parent; I knew that at times, thinking about my parents caused me great distress. After I retired and began to write my memoir, the loss of my parents weighed heavily in those reminiscences, and I cried for days while writing one simple chapter.

After we lost Brian I kept reminding myself to stay sane; to look forward to remembering all that he was, all the lovely memories we had of him, and not to drown in sorrow. I did not want to become the woman in that house, a shadow in her own life.

We have been consciously searching for new things to do-albeit the fact that Hubby's health was compromised and he was in and out of hospitals for months. We planned a garden renewal; a living room upgrade; a new class in fiddle playing. We tried to stay active, took our regular walks, attended regular meetings.

Yet, each week, and each month we marked the date and day of his death. Sunday mornings will never return to being leisure days for us. Sundays are days of mourning. It was a Sunday morning when Brian was carried to a friend's house after he was hit in the head by an angry young man, after he fell and lost consciousness, and he was put to bed by his friends, who thought that because they heard him snore he must be o.k.

I think of how all who knew him must still feel.

There isn't a day when my husband and I don't talk about him.
There isn't a movie or a book, or a television program when I don't see something/someone that reminds me of him.  When I heard Paul Ryan speak on television, there was something of Brian in that pose, that smile, that resolve. (I happen not to agree with Ryan's politics!)

I was looking forward to more grandchildren.
I was looking forward to many more visits and conversations.
I was looking forward.

Some events mark us for a while.
Some change us forever.

Like a folded map...

I downloaded this picture from a bunch sent to me. I recognize the rock in the water: this is Agate beach, the same view I see  across the lake where we live in Port Orford. I'm assuming Janet took it when the two of them visited during the 4th of July weekend in 2011.

Brian changed a whole lot those last years, looked more manly, acted more mature in so many ways.
Yet, when I begin to think of him, my mind skips around, through the years.
It is like having a folded map, and moving it around, I get to review the different parts of his journey.

And that's what it feels like this reminiscing: the journey is over for Brian, and I have both the beginnings and the end, thirty-one years where the little boy who took his first camping trip with his big brother and fell in love with the outdoors, continued to enjoy nature every chance he had.

I still have a list a things we were going to do together:
1. take a trip to Italy together
2. go on fishing trips
3. revisit Montana where his father's family originated

He and I built a garden together in Woodland Hills, after the house we lived in was destroyed in the 1994 Northridge earthquake. He enjoyed helping me, doing the tasks I could not do by myself, helping me with setting rocks in various locations, building a brick patio, a pond for his fish and turtles, and designing and constructing the irrigation lines.

He chose the statuary: an Italian inspired young boy with a bird in his hand, to decorate the area with orange and lemon bushes.

Just fourteen when the earthquake hit, he visited the construction zone everyday before and after school by himself, to feed his cat that didn't adjust to moving. In the evening, we would all return to the site, with a picnic, to talk to the contractor. He was a sponge the entire time, asking questions, noticing details.

On Sundays, I know you'll call.

On Sundays

you called.

I'd ask you how your week was; what you ate; what was bothering you.

You shared easily

Indulging me.

Then, on the phone with your father

you talked and talked

and indulged him too.

I still thought of you as my baby.

It was a Sunday evening.

The caller identified himself as the sheriff from the  Brookings 911. The time was 5:30 p.m on Sunday, July 17, 2011.

Are you Rosaria Williams? 
Yes? 
We need to talk to you. 
What is this about? Can't you tell me on the phone?
Do you still live on Circle Drive?
I never lived on Circle Drive. You must have the wrong Rosaria Williams.
Your birthdate is...
Yes.
We need to talk to you. We'll be there in a half hour with the local police car.

I immediately thought someone had been impersonating me, had committed some crime or other, and the police was coming over to take me to jail. Ken, I said, as I changed and put shoes on, Ken, follow us to the county jail and bail me out.

Within fifteen minutes the local police was in our driveway. Officer Rose was alone. He always joked with us on the streets of Port Orford, in his patrol car, as Ken and I took our daily walks.
He asked if my husband was home. I called for Ken to join us in the living room.

Sit down, were his first words.
What is it? I still thought he had a warrant and was trying to be friendly before he  took me away.
I have bad news. Your son Brian was found dead this morning.
You must have the wrong person.
Brian Williams, from Fullerton.
He must be some other Brian Williams. My son lives in Long Beach.
I want you to talk to detective Malone from the Fullerton Police Department. He can provide you with details. Here is his number.

Ken called the Fullerton Police Department. His face was somber and tense. He listened for a while, and then took down some names and numbers. He looked at me and nodded.

It must be a mistake. How tall is this person? Ask them that. Ask how much he weighs! I was now shouting at Ken, angry at him for taking the other's words as facts. No way, I kept saying. No way. He'd be with Janet, with other friends. Who was he with? What happened?

Ken kept talking on the phone. I kept looking at him and shaking my head.

When the call ended, Ken shared these facts:

Brian was at a party next door to Kalen's brother's apartment. After the party, a neighbor got angry, followed Brian out the door and hit him hard, causing him to land flat on the pavement. The police thought there had been a fight. Kalen and his brother took him home to sleep. The next morning, Brian couldn't be roused, and the boys called 911.

We could have left for Long Beach the same night, but Ken needed refills on his meds, and we waited for the next morning before deciding how to travel.
We called our other children.
We walked to our neighbor to alert her of our situation.
We left messages cancelling appointments coming up.
We cleaned house.
We left messages at the Coroner's office to learn more.
We packed.

The next day we drove our SUV south, to gather Brian's animals and things, and to plan for his funeral. I was on the phone the entire trip, talking to my children, to Janet, police, coroner, funeral arrangements.

By the time we arrived in Long Beach we were exhausted. Neighbors met us at the door.

The place was clean; the animals well cared; the refrigerator and freezer totally stocked, thanks to Janet. She had a detailed design of the Memorial when she joined us a few hours later. We were united on this goal, as people began to show up that same evening to talk about Brian,  to express their sympathies.

For the next three weeks, our energies went to support the work of the many volunteers organized by Janet, to order materials and tools, to select plants, to meet with police, funeral personnel, Brian's work,  to share meals with as many people as remained late in the evenings after it was too dark to work.

Johnny, the neighbor boy who kept walking Butters for us, kept showing up with more tools, more materials that were needed. He and his family were there for us every step of the way. Neighbors put up with a lot of noise; with people coming and going; with cars lined up all over the place; with dump trucks being delivered empty and picked up full; with materials being delivered.

After the funeral and memorial, after the house was emptied of furniture and goods, after Butters was adopted, after the garden was completed, after the last dump truck was filled, Ken and I turned the house key to the bank that held the mortgage, packed a few things, and with Newkie whining in her cage, we deposited the probate materials with our son Scott who would later deliver them to the attorney, and  headed back home,  north to Oregon, to a quiet time to mourn.


This morning, as usual, we talked about Brian. We'll be talking about him until we can't talk anymore.

A year ago...

Brian and Janet on the deck in Port Orford, July 4th weekend, 2011.

Butters and Walrus 
just below this deck.
You two enjoying the scene.

Walrus watching Butters.

Butters watching Walrus.

We had just had our Fourth of July lunch, after the parade:

BBQ ribs, Boston baked beans, fried artichokes, green salad,

hummus, pizza bites, corn on the cob.

You and Janet

Pia and Jason
Dad and I 

Walrus and Butters.

We celebrated our many blessings together that week:
Your Dad's and my 45th Anniversary;
Your engagement to Janet the previous spring;
Dad's upcoming birthday;
and our nation's birthday.

You and Janet had just returned from our little town's parade, llamas' and tractors' and horses' and a  musicians'  parade. In the afternoon, you thought of joining the Jerry cans race, or the golf on the beach, or the square dancing in the moonlight. You had made plans to join Claire Davis, Janet's school friend, to watch the Fireworks Celebration at Battlerock Park.

It all felt like a golden time, with all of you, (minus your brother and his family), a family reunion of sorts I could look forward to every year. We had never had a proper reunion, with all our relatives, close and far.
We talked about saving the 4th of July to spend together.
 Every year.

 Before you two drove back to Southern Cal., you took apart the big monster rototiller that had been too big for us to bring down to Long Beach the previous winter in our SUV. You packed it in pieces, and stuffed it in the trunk of your BMW, knowing what you wanted to do to that yard of yours,  you and Janet building dreams, to and from Oregon.

After your sudden death, we could have used many rototillers. Friends and colleagues spent days and days trimming trees, removing debris and old sheds, cutting up  soil, adding amendments, turning the soil over until the place was ready for new plantings.
A trellis and  boardwalk were erected, (thanks to Janet's father and brother who did all the construction work,)  and loving messages  were inscribed on the back of each plank, each step from the house to the trellis, all written in silence and in prayer on the day of your memorial.

People you had known in elementary, high school and  college,  friends I had not seen in decades, dozens of new people I never met before, people you worked with, neighbors and friends of Janet, parents of friends, people I worked with and knew about you,  everyone came to say goodbye in a personal way, by penning their farewell message, by building the garden, donating money for resources and special plants, doing all they could do in your memory.
Even Butters pawed her message, on the last board, before it was nailed down.

The house  in Long Beach is going up  for sale this month.

The new owners will never know the dreams contained in that space, the love shared under those trees,  the generous outpouring of resources and labor that went  to create a lasting tribute to your generous and loving soul.

Your Dad and I, your brother and sister, relatives and friends who came from everywhere heard about the wonderful adult you had become, a thoughtful guy who was always willing to lend a hand.

We will gather every July, son, in your memory, in your honor.
You will always shine brightly in our firmament.
Much love.